


Shadows and Light

by shadowquill17, Yassoda



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC
Genre: Graphic Description of Organs, M/M, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock's POV, Translated Fic, strong emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:34:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4591431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowquill17/pseuds/shadowquill17, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yassoda/pseuds/Yassoda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People don't understand Sherlock, and don't understand his love for John Watson. But it is there, strong, intense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows and Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowquill17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowquill17/gifts).
  * A translation of [Ombres et lumière](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/137121) by shadowquill17. 



> shadowquill17 wrote this to celebrate her two year anniversary entering in the Sherlock fandom. :)

...

Most people, the mediocre commoners who crawl across the streets of London as cockroaches do, cold and bitter in the winter frost of the city, believe they understand everything about Sherlock.

They believe they've 'got him' when they summarize him like the blurb on a back cover, they think they've analyzed and recognized him to the depths of his being when they call him selfish, insensitive, perverse, psychopath.

And Sherlock lets them. He's not going to waste his time and energy to prove them wrong, he's not going to fight their snide, weak, jealous minds. Let them believe what they want, let them feel proud to have guessed what their small, ridiculous souls reflect onto him!

Actually, it's probably better like that, muses Sherlock. His heart is his own, or rather, it isn't theirs, and it contains powerful, undefinable things that they don't deserve to know about.

They wouldn't understand the corrosive emotion that eats at his heart when he hugs John Watson, when the short and nimble fingers pull at his black locks, when the warm pressing mouth takes and takes and takes, demanding against his lips.

(Sherlock gives and gives and gives, and would give some more if he could, but he doesn't know what else John could want from him that isn't rough and damaged... He only has himself to give, and the initials JW carved over his heart, scarring white like a promise, are proof that he already has.)

They would be shocked by Sherlock's infinite, impossible desire to know John's body inch by inch, to possess each molecule, each perfect atom that forms this strong and extraordinary being... Sherlock wants to split him in half and kiss his organs, caress his entrails, worship each naked humid muscle; he wants to meld with him, like a virus, crawl into his chest to make a nest right next to the beat of John's heart.

(He thought that John wouldn't understand, but when he tells him, John simply kisses his forehead, and says, I know Sherlock, me too, and his eyes are soft and blue and Sherlock soars.)

Sally Donovan doesn't understand, Anderson doesn't understand... they only see Sherlock's darkness, without noticing the fire that John brought in his life, where he was formerly constantly on the brink of auto-destruction; the nearly celestial light with which he banishes the darkest of demons.

Mrs Hudson, at least, knows she does not understand; sometimes Sherlock wants to hug her tightly, and thank her for being who she is, loving and accepting of nearly everything... But he prefers to show his gratitude by eating the food she forces them to accept; it's far less complicated.

Sometimes he suspects that Mycroft knows way more than what he lets on; when Sherlock averts his eyes from John and meets his brother's heavy, serious, secretive look.

For if Mycroft has even the slightest idea of Sherlock's feelings, he no doubt worries terribly, as he does so well. Probably fears that Sherlock might carve his heart out, artery by artery, and offer it directly from its flesh case to John, cradling it in his bloody hands, as bare as it feels when John stares straight into his eyes...

Sherlock would never do that, obviously — death would be way too boring without John's breath against his neck, without the grounding familiarity of his twinkling, tired gaze, that prevents Sherlock from falling to fast, or soaring too high, too far...

So Sherlock does the only thing he can do to show John, only John, a hint of this dark and all-powerful love that beats inside him like an antique clock; Sherlock eats and drinks and sleeps, and he takes care of the heart that beats inside his chest, but that, in truth, belongs to John Watson.

...


End file.
